


raise my hands, paint my spirit gold

by youareiron_andyouarestrong



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies), Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/M, Gen, Tumblr Prompt, gratuitous use of mumford and sons lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:27:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youareiron_andyouarestrong/pseuds/youareiron_andyouarestrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fives times Max leaves the Citadel.</p>
<p>and the one time he doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	raise my hands, paint my spirit gold

 

i.  ** _so i’ll be bold as well as strong_** ** _and use my head alongside my heart_**

the first time he leaves it’s as a smegging _hood ornament,_ the War Boys howling, the drums thundering and the growls of the guitar somewhere behind him and it’s too _loud,_ he cannot  _think,_ that’s _his_ car and _his_ blood, _is there anything they have not taken from him_. 

he catches a quick glimpse of a cool, green-eyed stare, looking out from a black greasepaint mask. water in the desert, growing things.  

not meant for the likes of him.

ii.  _ **so break my step and relent,**_ _ **well you forgave and i won't forget**_

the second time, he slips away among the Wretched, mist from water spangling his head. he looks up into that now familiar stare, battered and bloody and swollen, so very much alive. his blood in her veins, her gun in his hands. a quiet nod of understanding. 

 he takes a forgotten bike and streaks into the wasteland, a clumsy bandage around the inside of his arm. blood spotting the cloth. 

he can’t stay. she’s found her redemption, or at least the beginning of it.

he’s still looking for his.

iii.  _ **these days of dust, which we've known,**_ _ **will blow away with this new sun**_

the third time he leaves he tells himself that this is the _last time, by the holy V8 or whatever else these idiots swear by._ he’s  _going,_ he’s _leaving_ , he’s _not coming back._

every time he tries to say this though, or some variation thereof, he seems to be interrupted. by Cheedo proudly showing him the new Healer’s Ward.  by the Dag pressing newly grown fruit and aloe into his hands. Capable showing him the ledgers, the records she’s keeping alongside with what remains of the Many Mothers. Toast’s sniper’s eye, her rallying the remaining War Boys to a supply run. Furiosa facing down what remains of the Gas Town and Bullet Farm leadership, straight backed and implacable, carrying power across her shoulders. the Many Mothers rebuilding themselves, passing down lore to the Wives and the new women who come in from the wasteland everyday. 

he _is_ going to leave. he is. there’s just things he’ll leave undone. 

so he stays. he rebuilds engines. replants gardens. stands at Furiosa’s side, the road warrior newly found to a righteous cause. he fortifies walls. snipes out raiders. and the bike he took sits in the garage, every revhead and blackthumb tripping over it. 

when he finally strikes out, heading for the horizon, Furiosa meets him. presses bullets and cloth into his hand, wrapped around hard, flat cakes. “for the road,” she says simply, and lowers the lift for him.  

iv.  ** _i'll kneel down, k_** ** _now my ground_**

he creeps out in the dead of night, a gun in his hand and grenades in his pack, unbeknownst to anyone, even the sisters or Furiosa. there’s a pack of Rocketboys trying to siege them and he’s tangled with this lot before. he knows their weaknesses. he can take them out faster. 

he doesn’t expect to make it back.

he meets Furiosa again in the lift (some part of him is entirely unsurprised). her arms are folded across her chest, her new prosthetic gleaming gunmetal.“if you’re going, so am I,” she says flatly. it’s because it would waste too much time that he doesn’t argue, he tells himself. not because he’s relieved to see her. or have her at his side. 

v. _**s**_ _ **o take my flesh,**_ _ **and fix my eyes,**_ _ **a tethered mind free from the lies**_

Dag gives him seeds and parts to trade when he’s packing his newly rebuilt Interceptor. “for the road,” she says with a knowing look. it’s become their sign off for him now, instead of _good-bye_ or _good luck_ or even _be careful._ the road, he thinks, carefully transferring the seeds into a safe compartment. what has the road ever given him that he should stay on it so?  

the Interceptor is more strongly built than it ever was, eating up miles and dust, outrunning raiders and packs. it’s neither the almost broken down wreck it was in the days of before, nor is it the overpowered monstrosity the Joe’s Boys made it into either. it is something new, something strong and well-made. little pieces of the Citadel cling to it–a Vulvalini woven blanket, seedlings from the garden, jars of balm and rolls of bandages, spare parts for the engine and extra bullets and one spare gun, just in case. a bone-handled knife that fits exactly so into the palm of his hand.   

_*_

_**well i came home like a stone,** _ _**and i fell heavy into your arms** _

he sleeps in Furiosa’s room because the barracks where the Wars Boys sleep makes him twitchy and gives him bad dreams and worse memories, and he wouldn’t impose on the new found autonomy the sisters have by staying in the Vault. he sleeps on a bedroll in the corner, knowing exactly where all the guns are and where she keeps the knives. 

the problem this presents is that he can no longer keep from her when he’s about to leave. 

the other problem is that he’s no longer sure he wants to. 

the truth of it is he’s getting old, older than he appears to be, older despite what the more outrageous legends and myths that crop up around might claim ( _the Road Warrior, Furiosa’s Gun Hand, Her Strong Right Arm, Max Rockatansky First of His Name, Builder of Walls, they say sold his soul to the wasteland for a shiny and chrome car that never breaks down, outruns sandstorms and bullets, they say he’ll never die until the day Valhalla comes_ ). he’s old, he’s tired, his head is full of ghosts that whisper. in Furiosa’s presence, the ghosts seem to find rest. like him.

he sits up, gathers up the bedroll in complete silence. he’s not even sure what he’s going to do until he reaches the door, finds the bolt in the half-darkness, hears a soft voice whisper behind him, “stay.”

at first he’s not sure if it’s one of his ghosts, but the voice is too alive, too warm for that. “stay,” she says again, a little stronger now. “stay with me.” 

the ghosts and the road don’t whisper, no voices in his head tells him to go. he turns, slow and eases himself, careful as careful, down besides her. a long sigh of release in the dark. 

he thinks of the road. he thinks of his ghosts. he thinks of her, water in the desert, leaves against the sky, cool steel in a warm hand. 

she is the road for miles and rest for the night.  


End file.
